Shadowfall

  Dart watched from the doorway. Tigre Hall was in the midst of repair. Temporary planks covered the holes in the floor, but the rush of the river could still be heard below.

  Laurelle and Pliny slowly traversed the aisle between the curved benches that fronted the grand dais. The wood smiths had built most of the seating in only the past few days, working through all the bells.

  Laurelle finally reached the dais and climbed with Pliny. They each took their seats, filling their proper places as Hands of the realm. Dart glanced to the chair to the immediate right of the center myrrwood throne. It had been her place. Hand of Blood. But another sat there now.

  Delia.

  It was her right as Meeryn’s original Hand of Blood.

  But others were empty. Yet to be filled.

  The smile on her lips faded as she remembered Yaellin, fallen to save her. She would honor him as best she could. She reached and clutched the black diamond at her throat.

  “There you are,” a firm voice cracked behind her.

  Dart jumped and turned. She curtsied again. “Castellan Vail.”

  “A page does not curtsy,” Kathryn said sternly. “They bow, first the head, then at the waist.”

  Dart licked her lips. She was to leave in the next day or so for Tashijan, to train as a knight. She would serve as page to the castellan herself. The clothes she wore now were reflective of her station. It had taken a bit of convincing to fight for this opportunity.

  Tylar and the others had refused at first.

  But Dart had not backed down. Yaellin had been both knight and Hand. To honor his sacrifice, she would become the same.

  Surprisingly, Kathryn had come to her defense.

  “None know the girl there,” the castellan had said. “Only those loyal to us, like Krevan and Gerrod, know the secret of her godhood. Not even Argent is aware. What better place to keep her safe than at the heart of Tashijan, surrounded by knights? And perhaps it’s still best to keep you and Dart apart for now.”

  Tylar had finally relented, bowing to the wisdom of it.

  So Dart had been bled almost daily by Delia, the new Hand of Blood. Her humour was stored in secret, available for Tylar to ignite Rivenscryr whenever necessary. Dart was no longer needed here, not as Hand, nor as sheath.

  Dart attempted to bow now as the castellan directed.

  Kathryn watched. “Much better.” Then she leaned down and faced Dart. “Is this something you truly want? To come with me to Tashijan? You are safe here.”

  Dart met her gaze. Nowhere was truly safe. She had learned that too well. True security could be found only in one’s own heart. She would learn to defend herself, to find a place for herself.

  “I want to be a knight,” Dart said solemnly. “I will be a knight.”

  Kathryn stared at her and nodded. “Then come with me.” She crossed to the door. “Stay by my side.”

  Dart fell in step with Kathryn as she traversed the hall. Cloaked knights and tattooed masters filled all the benches to the right. It was as if all of Tashijan had come.

  Kathryn stepped to the very front bench. She sidled over and sat next to a tall man with a plate of bone over one eye.

  “Warden Fields,” Kathryn said icily.

  “Castellan Vail,” he answered with as much warmth. His one good eye settled to Dart. Pupp gave the man a wide berth.

  “My new page,” Kathryn said and patted the open seat next to her.

  The man nodded. His interest glazed over, and he turned away.

  Dart fell into her seat, sitting straight, clutching the front edge of the bench.

  She stared across to the other side of the hall. Nobles throughout the First Land and beyond had come to attend, as had Hands from realms throughout Myrillia. Each god had sent at least one Hand. Most gods from the First Land had sent all their handservants.

  As Dart gawked, she spotted a face staring back at her. Her brow crinkled with recognition. It was one of her fellow thirdfloorers from the Conclave. A dark boy. His bronzed face was easy to pick out among the older, paler Hands of his retinue. She had never learned his name. He had been chosen the same night as Dart and Laurelle, chosen by Jessup of Oldenbrook, a distinguished house of the First Land. But Dart also remembered how he had spoken up for her when the others had ridiculed her.

  His eyes met hers. He nodded.

  She was surprised to feel heat suffuse her face.

  A trumpet sounded, startling her back around.

  Drums beat at the rear of the room.

  Folk throughout the hall stood. Dart rose with the tide.

  Doors opened at the back, and a march of castillion guards entered Tigre Hall. Stepping in beat to the drums, they crossed down the center aisle, taking up stations to either side, forming an alley. Swords were raised, forming an archway.

  Another trumpet blasted—and he appeared, stepping into the hall.

  Kathryn stiffened at Dart’s side. Tylar strode down the tunnel of swords. His black hair had been oiled straight back. His face had been shaved to polished smoothness. As he marched, his gray eyes shone with the storm inside him. This was not a role he cared to play. He wore a solid outfit of black: boots, pants, shirt, and cloak. The only color was the silver scabbard worn at the waist.

  It bore the Godsword.

  Rivenscryr.

  He marched down the long aisle toward the chair that awaited him. Since that bloody day, ravens had been flying throughout Myrillia. The skies were thick with their wings. Gods were consulted across the Nine Lands. It was decided that Chrismferry could not be left fallow after the slaying of Chrism. It was the city around which all of Myrillia turned.

  A regent was needed.

  Someone with Grace to share, to keep commerce flowing.

  Still bearing Meeryn’s blessings, Tylar had been chosen.

  He strode up to the tall myrrwood seat, faced the crowd, and pulled forth Rivenscryr.

  He had no choice.

  At the end, the godslayer had become a god.

  Tylar stood by the central brazier in the High Wing.

  “It’s about time you returned these,” Rogger said and strapped on his belt of daggers. “I expect I’ll be needing them.”

  “Are you leaving already?” Tylar asked. “The sun’s almost setting.”

  He snugged the belt. “That’s the beginning of a new day for a thief.”

  Tylar clapped him on the shoulder. “Watch yourself. Where will you head first?”

  Rogger touched the side of his nose. “Perhaps I’d best leave my path unknown for now.”

  Tylar nodded. He clasped Rogger in a firm embrace. The thief was heading off to investigate how far the Cabal’s corruption had spread in other god’s households. He would be traveling under the guise of his interrupted pilgrimage. In fact, he wore a fresh brand, Chrism’s sigil, on his backside. “Seemed the best place,” Rogger had commented.

  “When will I hear from you?” Tylar asked now as they both separated.

  “When you least expect it,” Rogger said with a wink. “I’ll send word through Krevan and the Black Flaggers.”

  With a final few words of parting, the two separated. Rogger headed away. Tylar turned to face his next obstacle.

  The doors to Chrism’s rooms.

  As regent, they were now his rooms. But he was not sure he was ready to step through those doors. He glanced over his shoulder. Beyond the windows, the sun descended into the flow of the Tigre River, painting the skies in rosy hues and violet splashes.

  A brilliant sunset.

  But Tylar knew most of the beauty came from the pall of smoke that continued to steam from the smoldering myrrwood forest. The fires had yet to die away fully. Deep embers still glowed, buried among the piles of ashes. A forest that lived for four thousand years did not expire easily.

  A door closed to the left, drawing his attention.

  Kathryn stepped through it. Both of them froze, caught by surprise.

  “Kathryn . . .” he finally choked out.
/>
  For the past many days, they had been missing each other, each busy with a thousand details and questions, drawn in opposite directions. He fell more and more into his duties here. Her attentions were drawn to Tashijan.

  Or was it simply that they were each avoiding the other, unsure what to do? How to face a past . . . and a future?

  “I . . . I was just picking up something Dart left in Laurelle’s room.” Kathryn nodded to the room she just left. “We head out for Tashijan in the morning.”

  “So soon?” It was like everyone was fleeing from his side.

  “There is much to settle at Tashijan,” Kathryn said. “Argent has already headed back. He hurries to firm those still loyal to him. After he passed the soothmancer’s test, clearing his name of any of the bloodiness that occurred at the Citadel, he seeks to reestablish his position.”

  “Argent still refuses to step down? Even after he admits to employing a cursed sword?”

  Kathryn shook her head. “There is still enough support for him both among the Fiery Cross members and the Council to keep his seat.”

  “And what of the Fiery Cross?” Tylar asked. He drew her closer to the golden doors, away from direct sight.

  Kathryn frowned. “I don’t know how Argent passed his soothing, but I know what I saw. Perhaps he knows nothing about the dead knight and the bloody sacrifice, but someone in the Fiery Cross does. There is foulness afoot, and I will root it out.”

  Tylar’s brow crinkled with concern. Perryl still remained missing, vanished from his room. “And what of Dart? Is it safe to bring her into such a house?”

  “I don’t think your house is any safer,” Kathryn said with a glint of irritation. “I’m not sure all the gods are as satisfied as they claim with your regency. And we don’t know where the Cabal will strike next, but your neck is sticking out there.”

  Tylar nodded, conceding the point. He had his own house to clean. Stray ilk-beasts were still showing up throughout the city, having escaped to the gardens during the aftermath of the battle. And any face could hide a Cabalist.

  “I’ll keep the girl safe,” Kathryn assured him.

  Words suddenly died between them. Kathryn seemed to be waiting for something from him. Her eyes drifted down and away.

  “I must go,” she finally mumbled.

  A part of him wanted to ask her to stay. But how could he? She was needed at Tashijan. There were few over there he could truly trust, and as castellan, she could do the most good. And what could he offer to make her stay? The discomfort between them, born of old bitterness and guilt, only seemed to worsen with time spent in each other’s company.

  Neither had the words to heal . . . if it could ever be done.

  It was too complicated, too wounded, too bloodied.

  He nodded. “Travel safe.”

  She hesitated, glancing up at him, a breath away from saying something else.

  A neighboring door opened to the right. Delia stepped out. Her eyes widened to find Kathryn and Tylar huddled together.

  “Excuse me,” she said shyly.

  Delia wore a simple shift of white linen belted at the waist with a black cord, a match to her dark hair. She carried her tools in her hands.

  Her eyes found Tylar. “You . . . you mentioned wanting to complete the day’s bloodletting before final bells.”

  Tylar stared at her. After watching the shifting shadows of Kathryn’s cloak, Delia seemed somehow crisper, more vivid, and lighter of spirit.

  “Of course,” he said. “I had forgotten.”

  He glanced to Kathryn. She backed away, turned, and stepped toward the main hallway. But not before he noted the pain in her eyes.

  “Kathryn . . .”

  She glanced back at him and shook her head.

  No more words. They each had their own path to follow from here.

  She marched down the hall.

  Tylar watched until she vanished out the far door. She was right. He turned to the wide golden doors, grabbed the handle, and shoved into his new chambers.

  Here was his path.

  In Darkness . . .

  MIRRA MOVED SLOWLY DOWN THE BLACK STAIR, WRAPPED in a furred cloak and leaning on a stout cane. She took care to open the wards before her and close them after.

  Precautions must be taken . . . even down here.

  She moved far beneath Tashijan, as deep as Stormwatch Tower thrust high. None knew of these old tunnels and caverns. They were ancient even in the times of the human kings, burial crypts of the primitive el’rayn, a race before man. Not even their bones remained, just piles of dust and a few teeth.

  Such is the impermanence of flesh . . .

  She continued deeper. She needed no torch to guide her steps. She knew the way. Light was not welcome here. It threatened the barrier between this world and the naether below. Only in such sunless places did the naether come close enough to cross without the Godsword.

  Still, she paused on the stair to rest her knees and back. She stared up. All was set. Her duty was almost done: to spread dissent, to corrupt, to confuse. Ser Henri had been too pliant a fool, so easy to flail his fears, to beset him with suspicions. She had set him against the Fiery Cross, playing one side upon the other. And the linchpin had been Henri’s golden boy, Tylar ser Noche. How simple it had been to tease the mistrust of the Gray Traders, to get them to plant murder at Tylar’s feet, then have him stripped and broken. It also broke poor Henri, made him even more compliant to her whispered words of conspiracies and dark covenants within the order.

  The schism had been set.

  All that was left was to widen the crack, to bring Tashijan down.

  As Tashijan falls, so falls Myrillia.

  Despite this thought, an irritated frown drew her lips back down. Henri had managed to keep one secret from her. Who could have known he had such strength? The abomination had lived, hidden so close. Even torture had not loosened Henri’s tongue.

  The secret had threatened everything.

  Still, Mirra drew strength as she remembered Henri’s screams, warded into silence, for their ears only. It was no matter in the end. With Henri’s death, the Fiery Cross occupied the Eyrie now. And such an assignation continued to ring with discomfort throughout Tashijan. Argent ser Fields sat uncomfortably upon his throne. He would prove an even greater ally than Ser Henri.

  It would not be long.

  With a sigh, she continued down the stairs, passing tunnel after tunnel, each lined by niche after niche, ancient el’rayn crypts. But new residences had taken roost, the ancient dust swept clean.

  In each cubicle, they waited, naether bound, and black blooded. A thousand strong. New knights to occupy Tashijan. Darker than any shadow, more powerful than any Grace.

  The Black Ghawl.

  She heard them breathe around her in the darkness, ageless, collected for four centuries and stored here, awaiting their rise.

  Soon.

  Mirra wended the last few steps to the deepest cavern.

  She touched the last ward and a glow finally rose about the chamber ahead. Not a natural light, but the shine of putrefaction and decay. She walked gladly into its embrace.

  The cavern was empty, except for a ripple of volcanic flowstone that had hardened into an altar. Upon the black stone rested a pale figure. Naked. Staring blindly upward.

  She approached the altar. It was time to add one more to her legion.

  It had been a shame to waste her last subject. To abandon his body on the floor, cold and emptied of blood. But he had served his purpose. To cast suspicion upon the Fiery Cross, to plant yet another seed of suspicion, sowed this time into the hearts of the new castellan . . . and in turn, into the godslayer.

  She cursed under her breath at this last.

  Tylar had cost them much.

  But there were ways of handling a godslayer.

  And Tylar had forged Rivenscryr.

  This thought stirred the shadows around her. The naethryn waited at the gates. It would not be long. Myrilli
a was far from settled. Already the wheel turned.

  Soon.

  She turned her attention back to the pale figure sprawled upon the flowstone altar. Littick sigils marked his flesh, drawn in her own blood. She dabbed her fingers in a bowl and dripped the cursed alchemies into the boy’s eyes.

  Blindness dissolved like crusts from his gaze. The Littick symbols burst into flame.

  He blinked. Then screamed.

  “Hush,” Mirra whispered. “It is time to bend a knee to a new master, Ser Perryl.”

  She lifted the dagger.

  The boy could not move. So fair of features, so blue of eye.

  But not for long.

  She lifted the dagger high, far enough for the frozen boy to see.

  Terror was an important element of alchemy.

  With the strength of both shoulders, she plunged the dagger deep into Perryl’s chest. The cursed blade passed easily through his ribs to the fist of red muscle that lay beneath. She let the dagger rest there, dropping her hands.

  The hilt vibrated with each failing beat of the boy’s heart.

  Once, twice, thrice . . .

  She waited. No more.

  She reached forward and uncapped the top of the hilt. The hollow handle had been carved from an infant’s leg bone, taken from the godling child stolen by the Cabal four centuries ago.

  With all ready, Mirra climbed atop the flowstone altar. She straddled the boy, one leg on each side of his chest. She lifted the hem of her robe and squatted over the open handle of the dagger. She removed the plug of linen from between her legs. She allowed her menstra blood to flow and drip into the hollow handle.

  Menstra to bless . . . she recited. Or in this case . . . curse.

  It did not take long. It never did.

  The bone hilt twitched.

  The beat of a new heart, black and poisoned.

  Once, twice, thrice . . .

  APPENDIX TO MYRILLIA

  The Four Aspects of the Gods

  AIR

  FIRE

  WATER

  LOAM

  Litany of Nine Graces